Dragon Age: Duty of the Grey
by Suffering Soldier
Summary: An anthology following the tale of Warden Commander Cousland, from the halls of the Winter Palace, to the ruins of Kirkwall, and the walls of Skyhold. Having walked away from his post in search of Morrigan and a cure for the Calling, he still finds himself torn between his duty as a Grey Warden and his love for his family.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Red & Gold in the Winter Palace (I)

 **Summary:** That's the funny thing when someone "vanishes"-you're never certain where they'll turn up, and it turns out the Hero of Ferelden has a weakness for Orleasian brandy and golden-eyed sorceresses.

* * *

Surveying the ballroom from her vantage point tucked away amongst the luxurious, lapis curtains and ornate marble railings of the Winter Palace, the ghost of a smile crossed Leliana's lips. It wasn't simply that things were quietly proceeding in the Inquisition's favor, but in a small, private way, the crimson-haired bard was happy to be back in Orlais.

It was a testament to the nation's culture, or perhaps its vanity, that even amidst the throes of a civil war, nobles from every major family had flocked to Celene's palace for the chance to see the Game played on the grand stage. Peering out across the railing, she spied the Inquisitor carefully navigating the ballroom, oblivious to the aristocrats stealing glances over the rims of their crystal wine glasses or whispering to one another as she passed. In her younger days, Leliana would have envied her commander, imagining herself mingling with the rich and influential, an enigma that perplexed and excited the royal court. But that had been a long time ago, back when the Game had been a thrilling adventure.

As things stood, the spymaster was content to quietly pull strings from a distance, listening to ongoings in the palace through her agents and providing a gentle nudge in the right direction when necessary. Still, the Inquisitor was proving herself to be a rather adept player in her own right—in fact, the Dalish mage had acquitted herself quite admirably, considering. Rubbing elbows with Orlesian nobility surrounded by undercurrents of espionage and murder while wearing a fine, crimson dress, the green-eyed elf was about as far out of her element as she could've been.

Though, that wasn't to say she was on her own. The Inquisition had agents and allies throughout the palace, from friendly nobles Josephine had brought to their side, to the dozen-strong honor guard Cullen had handpicked waiting just outside if there was trouble. A handful of Leliana's people quietly mingled disguised as waitstaff, keeping close tabs on the Inquisitor.

"May I interest you in some _hors d'oeuvres_ , Madame?"

Looking up, Leliana found herself confronted with one of her agents, a twinkle of amusement in the man's eyes behind the white porcelain mask he wore. On the serving platter he offered sat a single dish full of finger food decorated with a thin crimson ribbon tied into a bow. Beside it sat a black hand fan, worthy of a raised eyebrow from the spy.

A message from Cassandra? Most interesting.

"Thank you," Leliana said, taking the dish. The servant gave a bow, melting away into the crowd as seamlessly as he had appeared.

Setting her glass of wine down on the railing, she inspected the dish carefully. Unraveling the ribbon, she found two words written along its length in faint black ink.

 _Balcony. Main doors._

"Brair,"

Brair, a minor Fereldan nobleman of some thirty years with a mess of dark-brown hair and a hawkish face, appeared at her elbow. Dressed in an undecorated crimson blazer, her second in command passed quite well for the manservant he was posing as. "Yes, my lady?"

"Hold my wine, please."

The noble flashed a knowing smirk, giving a slow, servile bow. She handed him her glass, his cue that he'd be receiving reports from the Inquisition's agents and generally keeping an eye on things until she returned. "It would be my pleasure, my lady."

The spymaster rolled her eyes as she departed. If Leliana didn't know better, she might've suspected he was enjoying himself.

True to the message she'd received, the spymaster found Cassandra within sight of the main doors, the sole occupant of a somewhat secluded balcony. Though not, it seemed, secluded enough for the Seeker to escape the attention of the palace's waitstaff. There was a glass of brandy in her hand as she reclined against the marble railing, which Leliana suspected wasn't her first.

"We have a problem," She began as Leliana joined her along the banister, her accent a little thicker than usual and the fruity smell of liquor on her breath. "But, I wanted to confer with you before I brought it to the Inquisitor's attention."

With a tired, even resigned expression on her face, Cassandra gestured in the direction of the grand hall's main entrance, much to the bard's confusion.

She'd been made vaguely aware of some sort of commotion at the doors, but had been told it was nothing; a drunken guest being ejected from the palace, or a noble with an over-inflated sense of self and no invitation trying to bluster their way in—both typical occurances at a gathering like this. However, given the state the Seeker was in, it was quite apparent she'd been incorrect.

Near the top of the grand staircase, a pair of new arrivals were preparing to be announced, a young woman trying to hurriedly brush away wrinkles in her rich blue dress and repeatedly adjusting the opal mask she wore. The baroness seemed to Leliana to be quite young, perhaps only nineteen or twenty, and the bard knew this would likely be her first time attending a royal masquerade. An older woman stood quietly off to one side, dressed more plainly but quietly offering instructions to her younger counterpart. She was likely the noblewoman's minder, the spy concluded.

"Presenting, Lady Arabella Blanchard du Val, Baroness of Val Montaigne." The herald trumpeted, his voice carrying throughout the ballroom. The woman fidgeted at the mention of her name, no doubt nervous to momentarily find herself the center of attention of the great game she'd been so carefully groomed for.

Blanchard? Leliana knew the name; a relatively minor family from the southern part of the country that had sided with the Empress in the civil war. The head of the family had died suddenly several months ago, and Arabella, the eldest daughter, had unexpectedly found control of the barony thrust upon her.

"Accompanying Lady Blanchard,"

In contrast, the nobleman beside her was much older and seemed calm, even casual, offering her his elbow with a look of perfect confidence on his face. The trim blue jacket stretched across his broad shoulders was decorated in silver and white with a sword in a black leather scabbard at his side, set in contrast to his dark brown hair and tidy beard. He surveyed the ballroom with a smile, a twinkle mischief in his frost-blue eyes.

Leliana made a thoughtful sound. It was funny—from up here on the balcony, the strange nobleman almost looked a bit like—

"Lord Clyde Cousland,"

The spymaster's eyes widened. _Oh_.

"Arl of Amaranthine, Brother to the Teyrn of Highever, Warden-Commander of the Order of Fereldan Grey Wardens,"

From beside her, Leliana heard the Seeker give a defeated huff.

"Hero of Ferelden."

The bard felt her breath hitch. It was… no, it wasn't possible.

Years ago, the Warden had ridden out the front gate of Vigil's Keep and disappeared. After the beginning of the Mage Rebellion, the Chantry had tasked Cassandra with searching for him, but months of following leads and chasing rumors had yielded nothing but frustration and dead ends. As far as they could tell, he had utterly vanished.

Cassandra had retreated from the railing in disgust, unable to bear the sight of what the spy suspected she took as nothing short of a personal failure. The dragon huntress no doubt still blamed herself for the events at Haven, and she would probably try to argue that finding the Warden could've prevented the Divine's death. Leliana disagreed, of course, though it was a conversation she found herself too preoccupied to have at the moment. In truth, the former lay sister had quietly accepted the likelihood that her old friend had taken to the Deep Roads and undergone his Calling years ago.

But here he was. After almost ten years, he'd simply sauntered into the Winter Palace as if he'd never disappeared. Part of her wondered if she shouldn't suspect a ploy or perhaps even an imposter, but she was still trying to overcome her own shock. After all this time, why now? After a few years spent at Vigil's Keep rebuilding the Grey Wardens, he'd suddenly walked away from his duty as Warden Commander, chasing rumors about...

 _Ah_. Of course.

Leliana's face lit up as realization dawned. It seemed so obvious now—what else could it have been?

The assembled nobles seemed to pay the new arrivals little mind, too engrossed in their own affairs to ponder the sudden reappearance of the Warden as the pair continued down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, the two separated and the nobleman turned, giving a bow and placing a light kiss on the top of the lady's gloved hand. He said a said something before rising, a compliment, no doubt. The girl tittered meekly as her matron reappeared to collect her, a victorious smirk on the Warden's face as he watched her depart.

Leliana rolled her eyes.

She'd forgotten that the man had been raised in the courts and ballrooms of Ferelden, and was well aware of the... _effect_ he hadon women. Even when she'd traveled with him, the handsome, young lord's quick wit and roguish charm had allowed him to get away with far, _far_ more than he should've. Even the bard had found it rather enchanting, once... but those had been younger, more carefree days.

For now, she _did_ have questions for the man, and though she had some idea of why he was here, the spy knew she should probably speak to him sooner rather than later. After all, she had it on good authority that a certain sorceress had found her way into Celene's court and, if she'd seen the nobleman's entrance, it was important that the spy found him before she did.

* * *

...

Orlais was a beautiful country.

After months spent on the road, it was a land that Clyde had come to know well. The quiet cobble roads that meandered their way through the old growth in the south of the country reminded him fondly of the Bannorn. Away from the coast, the region was drier and the wind didn't carry the briny tang of the sea, but it was still enough to make the Warden Commander a bit homesick. As much as he loved his homeland, as he camped out under the stars he'd imagined himself owning a villa hidden away in the forest somewhere more than once.

The weary soldier was sick of traveling. All he wanted was some sense permanence, a place he could sleep late into the morning and spend every evening watching the sun dip below the horizon. If this civil war ever sorted itself out, perhaps Orlais could be that place.

Shame the place was full of Orlesians.

Alright, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, Cousland conceded as he surveyed the sea of elaborately dressed aristocrats that filled the halls of the empress' palace. Still, he was very much certain that he didn't care for the country's nobility.

Though the young arl found them to be usually quite personable in private, when they were all together like this—piled atop one another and writhing about like carp in a fisherman's net—it was almost unbearable. Grouped together, the nobles became vain and spiteful creatures. Even now, the veneer of civility was betrayed by the undertones of rivalry and treachery that hung in the air as heavily as the smell of expensive perfume. It felt as through the whole room was one petty insult or spilled glass of wine away from pulling daggers on one another.

While Orlais may've looked down their nose at the neighbors, the Warden much preferred the Fereldan tradition of stepping out into courtyard with a rival and pummeling each other to settle matters, before returning to the festivities and drinking to each other's health. At least then it wouldn't feel like he was trying to drink punch in a room full of well-dressed pit vipers.

That, and they never served enough food at these parties. For all of their purported culinary superiority, there was nothing to eat but finger food. It was absolutely maddening.

The Warden regarded the array of liquors and platters of fancy cheese that adorned the long, cloth-draped table nearby with a mixture of concern and bewilderment. Glancing uneasily between slices of pickled cobra and an edible centerpiece featuring a pair of whole, cooked swans arranged to look as though they were taking flight, he seriously considered sneaking off to a kitchen to find something a little less... complicated.

"I'm told one of the dukes brought smoked wyvern. It's something of a delicacy." An accented voice spoke from behind him, a smile in the woman's tone.

"I've had wyvern, it was rather stringy." Clyde replied matter-of-factly as he turned. Seeming to ponder the subject a moment longer, he gave a half-hearted shrug. "Then again, I cooked it over an open fire."

The redheaded woman simply made an exasperated sound as a broad, happy smile tugged at his cheeks. "It's good to see you again, Leliana."

"It's been too long." The spymaster replied agreeably, a more reserved but no less genuine smile on her face. She wore a crimson, sharp-cut blazer trimmed with gold, the garment's clean lines and high collar not dissimilar from his own.

A thoughtful noise escaped Clyde's lips. The bard had joined the Inquisition, then. Interesting.

It came as only a mild surprise. Even as isolated as he'd been scouring Grey Warden ruins and dusty archives the across the whole of Thedas, he'd still heard about the events at Haven and expected that Leliana would have been involved in some way. Seeing first an honor guard bearing the mark of the Seekers in the front gardens and now her uniform only confirmed his suspicions.

His old friend made a show of surveying the crowded ballroom around them. "May we speak in private?"

Clyde gave a nod, indicating for her to lead the way.

Leliana turned gracefully on her heel and started in the direction of a side door, deftly passing unnoticed through the groups of mingling partygoers. Cousland followed, the sea of nobles quickly parting ahead of the powerfully-built Warden, much to his wry amusement.

The music and bustle of conversation faded as the door closed behind them, and the pair found themselves in a small, warmly decorated parlor lit by the soft glow of an ornate, crystal chandelier. The walls were lined with crowded bookshelves that nearly reached the ceiling—though the veteran expected they were mostly for decoration—and room smelled of lamp oil and the pleasant must of old paper. A group of young nobles looked up at the unexpected intruders, but a suggestive nod by the warrior toward a side door sent them hastily on their way.

Watching as the door closed behind them, Leliana gave a quiet, musical laugh and turned to face Clyde.

"You know, the Chantry spent years looking for you when you disappeared. They followed rumors from the Korcari Wilds all the way to the Free Marches, but never found any real sign of you." She paused abruptly, as if carefully considering her next words. When they came, they were low, even mournful "I was afraid you'd undergone your Calling."

The Warden offered a thin smile, feeling a wave of guilt wash over him at the inflection in her voice.

He knew they'd been searching for him—he'd gone to some lengths to avoid being tracked, and agents of the Chantry had _still_ nearly discovered him a few times.

It was selfish, he knew. Walking away from his post in Amaranthine had spurned an innate sense of duty somewhere deep inside him and it ate at him, but he had no desire to play savior like he had over a decade ago. For the first time since Howe had burned Castle Cousland to the ground all those years ago, he had something worth returning to—a beautiful, brilliant woman whom he loved without condition and a young son he wasted no opportunity to spoil.

Life was seldom easy, but they were his _family_ , and he would do anything to protect them.

Let Thedas find a different hero—someone else to shoulder the mantle of saving the world. The Warden had played his part in the Fifth Blight, leaving behind his burning home and murdered family to battle the unimaginable horrors of the darkspawn.

And what did he have to show for it? A collected of scars that marred his body. Images of formless, grey terrors that plagued his sleep. A blood oath like an ache within his bones that made him feel old beyond his time and would likely kill him within a few short years.

"What in the world are you doing here?" The question—asked so lightly, so free of accusation—snapped Clyde out of his trance.

"Lady Blanchard's uncle has several Grey Warden tomes from the Glory Age in his private collection and permitted me to use them for my research." He explained easily. "His eldest son, a chevalier, was to escort her tonight, but he was recently wounded fighting for Gaspard and I offered to accompany her in his stead."

Leliana regarded him skeptically, no doubt aware that the journey from Val Montaigne to Halamshiral was hardly a leisurely one. "Had to see the Winter Palace for yourself, did you?"

"I heard a rumor the Empress had a chocolate fountain the size of a pond and had to see for myself." The Warden half-joked, failing to sound convincing.

The spy smirked, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "You know, the Empress recently brought a new Arcane Advisor into her court."

Clyde cracked like cheap Antivan dinnerware under the bard's scrutiny. A guilty, lopsided grin spread across his face but it was accompanied by such a swell of joy that he couldn't be bothered to even _try_ to hide it. "I may've heard that, too."

The redhead offered a gentle smile as well, the quiet moment of familiar company harkening back to the months they had traveled together during the Fifth Blight.

Despite everything—despite the fear, the hardship, and the ever-present doubt they would be able to succeed—he'd come to remember the journey fondly. The Warden had been a different person then; young and untested. With the loss of his ancestral home and murder of his family still fresh in his mind, he was angry and without direction when he found himself thrust out into the world. Then, Alistair had found the young noble drinking himself to death in a dreary little tavern and enlisted his help in defeating the Blight.

The time on the road had changed Clyde. He'd eventually overcome his all-consuming grief and emerged tempered by his experiences; Countless battles against darkspawn and brigands had turned a promising novice into a skilled swordsman. A feeling of obligation to his noble blood had transformed in a sense of duty to his country. And somehow, amidst the turmoil that had nearly destroyed his homeland, he'd found a new family.

The Warden quietly watched as Leliana slowly made her way along the long rows of books, running one hand across the spines as she went.

"Back in Lothering, the Chantry had a library with books that were older than the village itself." The bard remarked wistfully as she surveyed the shelves. "It wasn't very large, but I still remember spending hours in there, reading by candlelight."

Clyde smiled at first, though the expression faded as his own memories of home flooding back to him. When they were young, he and his brother would race from the castle's keep at the crack of dawn each morning to collect eggs from the coops for breakfast. Despite everything he had achieved as a Grey Warden, he still missed the days of simple mornings spent with his brother in the fortress' kitchen, being taught to bake bread and poach eggs by their nanny.

But those times were long past. Lothering was gone. Castle Cousland was gone.

A few survivors like Leliana and himself were all that remained, lingering reminders of everything that had been lost. But the scars, painful as they once had been, were well-worn by now.

The companionable quiet stretched on for a couple more minutes before the bard set down the book she'd been leafing through and turned to the Warden, a certain reluctance in her voice when she spoke. "I have something important to ask of you."

"You want me to join the Inquisition." Clyde replied flatly. It wasn't a question.

She simply nodded. "I'd like you to meet with the Inquisitor."

He felt a wave of frustration tinged with betrayal wash over him, the spymaster struggling to meet his gaze as he scrutinized her. The noble quickly fought the feeling down, knowing she wasn't truly the one to blame. He had been worried Leliana would ask, but it still put him in a bad spot and she damn well knew it. The spy knew exactly what she was asking and must've had some sense of how the Warden felt about it.

Cousland understood it was important. The Divine was dead, there was a giant sodding hole in the sky spitting out demons, and they'd found some poor sap with a glowing hand and decided they were in charge of saving the world. As achingly familiar as it all seemed and as much as he sympathized for the newly christened "Inquisitor," the commander wasn't about going to get involved if there was any way to avoid it.

He'd practically walked away from his post as Warden Commander to chase after Morrigan—as insane as he knew it sounded, it was going to take more than some half-undead magister's plot to take over the world to make him walk away from his family now.

No.

He wanted to say it—to turn her down. _Needed_ to.

But the Orlesian sister was one of the few people left that Clyde counted amongst his close friends, and that alone meant he couldn't just walk away.

Damn it. Damn loyalty, damn his sense of honor, damn it all.

"Fine." The Warden relented, the words sounding defeated as he turned for the door. "I'll meet the Inquisitor in the gardens."

The door closed behind him before he heard Leliana's answer, diving back into the crowd of nobles in search of a servant that could get him something to drink.

When he'd heard that the Inquisition would be at the Winter Palace, a part of the Warden Commander had told him to stay away, knowing that it would be impossible to avoid becoming embroiled in the war they waged across seemingly the whole of Thedas.

He wished he had listened.

* * *

…

Arana didn't like the royal gardens.

Teeming with rows of carefully arranged flowers from Orlais and centered around an ornate pavilion made of white marble with a mosaic of the royal seal painstakingly recreated with colored stones across the floor, it was all so utterly artificial that it felt like it belonged painted on a canvas. Leaning against one of the railings, she surveyed the area, the courtyard a tangle of long shadows and waning orange light as the sun began to fall below the horizon.

The elf much preferred the wild grasslands and foothills of her home in the Free Marches, where she could walk barefooted and feel the smooth pebbles beneath her feet and the tips of the bristlegrass brush her legs.

Even so, she was relieved one of Leliana's agents had pulled her away from the Orlesian nobility for a little while. There was someone the spymaster wanted her to meet who was apparently rather important—though, if Arana was honest, she'd already forgotten their name. Even if the neatly manicured hedge that ran around the perimeter of the courtyard was hiding half a dozen assassins waiting with bows drawn, the garden was _still_ a less hostile place than the grand ballroom.

The Inquisitor snorted. An _elven mage_ to represent the Inquisition at an Orlesian gala. It sounded like the start of a bad joke. While keenly aware that she hadn't exactly been picked for the position, it still didn't help their case.

There was no other place in Thedas that better captured the enmity between the Dalish and humans. Countless years ago in the Glory Age, armies bearing the mark of the Chantry had marched on the Dales and laid waste to her people's civilization, scattering the survivors. They'd been driven into the deep forests and the wind-battered highlands, considered contemptible vagabonds at best and murderous brigands at worst. There was little left of her people now—their history had been taken from them and they hardly knew their own language any more. Even the very stones that had once made up their cities had been pulled down and broken up by the humans to build their highways with.

And now one of those elves had returned, perhaps the only person in all of Thedas that might be able to keep Orlais from plunging into civil war.

The bitter irony wasn't lost on Arana. She could imagine herself simply standing aside and watching it happened—a look of vindictive glee on her face as she smiled over the rim of a glass of their fancy wine at the sight of the empire burning itself to the ground. That alone would make the whole ordeal worth it.

But she couldn't.

The Inquisition _needed_ Orlais, and they needed it relatively intact. With much of Ferelden still engulfed in the war between the circle mages and the templars, the western country's military and economic power would be necessary to offset the support Corypheus received from Tevinter.

At least is was only one evening, the mage assured herself. After tonight, she could comfortably pass matters off to Josephine and move on to a part of Thedas that didn't make her skin crawl.

"Inquisitor Lavellan," A man's voice greeted from behind, sending her whirling to face the newcomer as she pushed herself up off the railing.

Clad in dark blue trimmed with light grey, the stranger's broad form stood as a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the white marble of the palace's exterior. He stood rigidly, like a soldier prepared for inspection. One hand held a short glass, idly swirling the amber liquid inside, even as the other rested on the hilt of the sword that hung from his left hip in a sheathe of fine black leather. The image of a two-headed griffon was stitched across his chest in striking silver, and the Warden met her gaze with a polite bow of the head. _"Ar garas ghilana."_

Arana started, her words faltering for a moment before she finally mustered a reply. _"Andaran atish'an_."

The man looked to be about a decade her senior, with neatly groomed, dark-brown hair that looked like it had been shorn down a while ago but had since been allowed to grow back. His elvish was rough but still intelligible, though the way the greeting rolled unevenly off his tongue indicated how strange the words were to the him. Still, it was a nice gesture—the mage couldn't recall being greeted by a human in her native tongue before.

"You'll forgive me, I haven't spoken elvish in years." He remarked wryly, regarding her with a half-apologetic smile.

After a long moment spent looking at the symbol embroidered on his chest, realization finally dawned as the message Leliana had sent through her agent suddenly came back to her. Admittedly, she sounded a little more awed than was likely appropriate for the purported Herald of Andraste. "You're the Hero of Ferelden."

The mage was surprised to see a flash of disdain cross the nobleman's expression at the title, waving the praise in her tone aside with a gloved hand. "Just Lord Cousland, please—or, Warden Commander, if you must."

The Inquisitor gave a thoughtful hum, more than a little surprised.

Being from the Free Marches, she only knew of the Hero's feats by the stories that had made their way north—epic tales told by tavern minstrels that blended fact and myth. Having become more exaggerated with each telling, in the version that had reached her clan, the Hero had leapt from the top of Fort Drakon and landed on the archdemom's back to cleave off all three of its heads in one fell blow.

Usually, she wasn't one for shemlen stories, much preferring her own people's folklore, but the Hero of Ferelden's tale had always captivated her for some reason. Perhaps it was because she knew so little about the Hero themselves—in the version told by the firelight in camp, their fate and even their identity had been a mystery. Knowing the Grey Wardens recruited amongst the Dalish, Arana had privately wondered if perhaps the Hero was a hunter from one of the southern clans.

When she'd made the trip to Ferelden, the mage had finally learned the rest of the tale—the Hero was a human nobleman from one of the country's prominent families, and he had survived the battle only to disappear a few years later.

She still liked the story, though.

"Well met, Lord Cousland." The elf said at last, realizing she'd been lost in thought and staring blankly at the man. "It seems circumstances have placed unusual titles on both of us."

The Warden snorted, a twinkle of amusement in his eye at her observation. "I've found it's not circumstances, it's _people_. Crawl out of a big enough crater—figurative or all too often literal—and they get the idea you know something they don't."

She gave a polite laugh, her hands clasping at one another behind her back.

Arana could understand why Cassandra and the Chantry had gone to such lengths to search for the Warden. He carried an air of confident authority, every step precise and certain without seeming strained, and despite the warrior's warm expression, his gaze was keen and cutting, taking in every detail of the dainty mage before him in a way that both intimidated and exhilarated her.

This _was_ the Hero of Ferelden.

"I was told you could help the Inquisition." Arana explained, pressing on to the matter at hand. The arrival of the Hero had been unexpected and was a potential boon for the Inquisition, but the Dalish mage still had a civil war to end before the night was done.

The Warden made a pained expression, his gaze dropping slightly and suddenly the air of invincibility faltered. Seeming uncertain of what to say, he raised his glass to his lips and took a drink to delay answering for a moment more. He spoke haltingly sounding genuinely contrite. "The short is _no_ , I can't."

The Inquisitor's face fell. She hadn't exactly expected the man to throw himself to his knees and pledge his wholehearted support, but to be denied outright was a shock. Still, she remained silent, allowing the man to continue.

"The _long_ answer is that while the Inquisition has my support, there's not much I can offer. I can write letters to the Crown and my brother in Highever, but they've their own worries with the mages and templars setting the Bannorn alight. You'll have the cooperation of the Order and Amaranthine in supplying and training Inquisition forces, but I'm told the arling is too hard-pressed to spare troops."

The Inquisitor could only nod, knowing the man was telling the truth. The situation in Ferelden was bad, perhaps as bad as during the height of the Fifth Blight—the south of the country was a battlefield, and the Crown was struggling to contend with the tide of refugees flowing north and the lawlessness that followed them. Still, that didn't mean the Warden couldn't be of help.

The Hero was a powerful ally in of himself. His connections, his reputation, his skills—he was more valuable as an agent of the Inquisition than any number of ships or soldiers.

"And what about you?" Arana asked. "The Inquisition could use _your_ help,"

The question was met with thunderous silence from the Warden, the distant, muted clamor of the party audible as he stared down into the mostly empty drink he held and began to make his way to the side of the gazebo.

In a single motion he brought the glass and swiftly drained it, setting the crystal glass down on the stone railing and leaning against it as he stared off toward the setting sun. The mage suddenly regretted asking, seeing how pensive it had made him.

"Inquisitor, what I am about to share with is known by only a handful of people outside the Order, and I would appreciate it if it stayed that way." Clyde began in a low voice. Fixing the Dalish elf with a grave stare, he waited for her to nod before turning back to the horizon and continuing. "All Grey Wardens undergo the 'Joining,' a ritual in which they imbibe darkspawn blood. It's fatal to many recruits, but those who survive are infected with a special form of the taint that gives them the ability to detect darkspawn. Unfortunately, it only delays the effects of blight sickness—given time, a Warden's mind is destroyed and they're compelled to seek out the Old Gods, just as the darkspawn do. To avoid this, at the end of our lives we undertake the Calling, preferring death in battle to corruption by the taint."

Arana shifted uncomfortably, genuinely uncertain how to react to the revelation. "I-I'm sorry."

"Don't be." The man laughed, the sharp, mirthless noise akin to the sound of steel rasping across rough stone. He finally pushed himself up and turned, apparently preferring to face the Inquisitor as he tone became somber. "For the better part of two years now I've been searching for a way to negate the effects of the Calling. I hope to save my fellow Grey Wardens... and... to live long enough to see my son grow into a man. That's why I can't help you."

The admission was low and harsh, striking a chord in the young mage that manifested itself as a tightness in her chest. She understood. More than the Warden Commander realized, she understood the way the terrible power of fate trapped and sundered all things—lives, fortunes, families.

Only a few short months ago, she'd been the First to a clan in the Free Marches. Things weren't always easy, but—surrounded by her family and the simple joys of life in the unspoiled wilds—she was content. Happy, even. Now, she was the leader of an army for a faith she didn't believe in, tasked with saving a world that had done little but abuse and revile her people.

If she were a more articulate person, perhaps she could've found the words to express her sympathy. But she wasn't. Instead, she could only stand mutely as the Hero pushed himself off the railing, giving her a departing bow of the head as he started back toward the palace. "I hope you enjoy the party, Your Worship."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Red & Gold in the Winter Palace (II)

 **Summary:** That's the funny thing when someone "vanishes"-you're never certain where they'll turn up, and it turns out the Hero of Ferelden has a weakness for Orleasian brandy and golden-eyed sorcessess.

* * *

After his conversation with the Inquisitor, the Warden Commander had elected to take a walk through the palace grounds, having no desire to return to the writhing viper's nest in the grand hall before he absolutely had to. The last thing he needed right now was the prattling of a bunch of Orlesian aristocrats to add to his frustrations. The long years had sobered the once young and rollicking noble, and solitude had become something of a calming companion during his long months on the road.

His brief meeting with the Inquisitor had been unproductive, even pointless. It was a bizarre feeling to see so much of oneself in another person and then willfully turn his back to them. The Warden quietly wondered if she hated him for it, and privately wouldn't have blamed her if she did. He'd felt an obligation to Leliana to meet the Dalish mage, but it had only been an opportunity for Clyde to shrug and say that he wouldn't help and didn't care.

And part of him didn't. Worn down by his long years of duty to Ferelden and the Order, and taking account of every aching scar his service had been rewarded with, a piece of him constantly yearned to shrug off the mantle he'd shouldered so very long ago. Surely, somewhere along his journey he'd repaid whatever debt he owed, hadn't he? Surely the world could leave him in peace and ask no more of him now, couldn't it?

It wouldn't be difficult to disappear.

Clyde Cousland was more a myth than a man anymore. It was a name inscribed in proud letters in the tomes of the Fifth Blight and the history of Highever. A name spoken in low, reverent voices in the halls of Orzammar and amongst the trees of the Brecillian Forest. Today, more rarely, it was a name that appeared on the doorstep of far-flung libraries or on the lips of dying footpads who had been holding some small village ransom or hoping to ambush a lone traveler on the road. For him to fade away to a simple life somewhere and for his name to be uttered no more would be nothing.

Yet, purpose spurred him onward, hoping that each bone-weary step brought him a little closer to the life of simple joys he'd been chasing since the end of the Blight. It was something he'd held fleetingly for too short a time, and now he pursued it again because of the Calling.

To say it eluded him would suggest it had been nearly within his grasp, but it hadn't. He was chasing shadows. Pawing at smoke. But if it were possible, he'd find a way—the Warden knew too well what failure held in store for him.

But what if it _wasn't_ possible? What if he was burning what little time he had left chasing the answers to a problem he couldn't fix? The Warden would've been lying if he said the prospect didn't keep him awake at night.

Out of the corner of his eye, the noble caught sight of a form moving silently along the veranda, and knew before he turned that it was her. The slightest breeze stirred and her scent reached him—a smell like fresh rain and sweet honeysuckle, tingled with bitterness from the herbs she'd been handling. It was so welcome, so achingly familiar, that he almost couldn't be sure it was real, like he'd fallen into some kind of waking dream.

But she _was_ real. There could be no denying it.

She wore a dark, elegant dress he'd never seen her in before, with a plunging neckline that bared her smooth, ivory skin and a gilded choker that reminded him fondly of the odd collection of necklaces and jewelry she'd always worn.

He turned smoothly, his hands clasped behind his back as he greeted her with a rich smile. He recognized the storm in her eyes immediately and knew well what was coming, but eagerly awaited the chance to hear her voice again all the same.

"Tell me, how is it when you last wrote months ago, you said you were in Nevarra and would be for a while?" Morrigan asked venomously, though her voice was still a joy to hear. "Was there some change of fortune? Or perhaps you simply became lost?"

Clyde beamed, climbing the stairs slowly. "Lady Morrigan, what an unexpected surprise!"

If it were possible, her features darkened even further.

" _Lord Cousland_ , 'tis always _truly_ a pleasure to welcome such an esteemed guest to the Empress' court. I am her Majesty's advisor on the arcane, as I am _sure_ you will be surprised to learn. Tell me, what brings you so far from your holdings in Amaranthine?"

It was a subtle, measured dance around the veranda as they spoke. He took a step forward, she took a step back. He moved left, she moved right, remaining just beyond arm's reach all the while.

"I'd heard the Winter Palace was especially beautiful this time of year," He drawled, making a show of slowly looking the sorceress up and down. "And I must say, it is _breathtaking_."

"Why are you here?" She finally demanded through clenched teeth, her tone heated.

"I came to see my family."

Morrigan huffed irritably. "Fool. I should have sent the hound to accompany you, it would've been less easily distracted."

Fortunately, as an old soldier and skilled swordsman, footwork was a specialty of Clyde's, and Morrigan never suspected he'd maneuvered her into an alcove until she retreated a step and her back met the smooth marble wall. The delicious flash of surprise in her eyes made him grim wolfishly.

Morrigan recovered quickly, folding her arms and regarding him with a look that dripped with contempt, determined that the Warden wouldn't be getting off so lightly, even if he had cornered her.

"Y-you," the sorceress stuttered, the arguments becoming harder to construct with his proximity. Though she may not have worn her feelings on her sleeve in the same way her love did, the long months apart had weighed on her too. "You have a responsibility to find a cure."

There was a hint of something in her eyes. Longing, barely held back by a shell of stoicism he was rapidly putting cracks in. He could pull the layers away and wrap his hands around her heart like no one else, and silently she was begging him not to. Not here. Not now.

They'd both been strong for their family and they were both tired after the months apart, but she wasn't prepared to give up being strong just yet. It sent a pang through the Warden; mirth and pride in equal measures at her stubbornness, but an enormous swell of adoration more than anything else.

"Responsibility will wait for a night."

"Your sentimentality will—"

"I couldn't stay away."

"You—"

Her protests slowly died and her stern expression faltered as he closed, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. In a moment more, his hands found her hips and brought her forward into his chest as their lips met, the sorceress giving a pleased gasp that the Warden would be certain to tease her about later.

The kiss was long and soulful. It was a confession, an affirmation, a celebration, an apology. It was a thousand things remembered and stored away over the months apart, all in a single instant.

Finally, the two parted, but no farther than it took to hold each other's gaze.

"I'd missed you." Clyde confessed in a husky tone, hardly an inch between them. A stab of anguish crept into his voice, like a prisoner being released from his chains at long last. Brushing aside a few errant strands of her silky, black hair, he took in the speckled amber eyes that had plagued his dreams.

Morrigan leaned heavily into his touch as his fingers sifted through her hair, half-lidded eyes studying the way the waning light fell across his features and the barest hint of a smile across her dark lips.

After a few long moments, she seemed to regain herself from the Warden's wiles, pulling back from him and lightly swatting his hand away. "Enough, you'll make a scandal of us."

Even so, the warm glow between the two of them remained, like the lingering warmth of hearth against a cold night. Clyde wore a shameless grin, like a mabari caught in the larder, and it only widened when the sorceress scowled at the sight of it. Making a quiet, disgusted noise, she started for the doors to the grand hall with the Warden in tow.

It didn't matter. Morrigan would be snappish for a while because he'd upset her, but Clyde was far too happy to see her again to be bothered.

"How is our son?"

Her tone was soft, even wistful. "Nearly a young man, now. He fares well. He'll be in my suite in the guest quarters, if he hasn't gone to run amok with the servant children."

The news of Kieran was enough to make the Warden's heart swell in his chest, even if it was accompanied by a stab of regret.

While by no means a strict disciplinarian, Morrigan was quick to attribute even the barest hint of unruliness from the boy to Clyde, claiming he'd inherited his father's mischievous nature.

It was possible his love was right for the same reasons he saw so much of her in their son—the limitless curiosity, the boundless desire to learn and to know. In a way, perhaps he was the best of them both; his father's bold courage and stubborn nobility, and his mother's keen mind and studied eye.

And yet Clyde had been there to see so little of it. Kieran had been nearly a year old when the warden commander had left his post to search for Morrigan, and had still been a boy when he'd departed to seek a cure for the Calling. If he failed, what memory would his son have of his father? Would he be anything more than an empty seat at the table, or a few pieces of worn parchment written by the dim light of a distant campfire?

What was the point of a long life—or even eternal life, such as Avernus had discovered—if it meant giving up everything he sought to go on living for?

"I must return the Empress' side," Morrigan stated, smoothing her dress. "The Inquisitor tells me they fear a plot against her life before the night is through." She glanced to the Warden. "Will you join me?"

"Always."

As they entered the grand hall, they found that most of the nobles had gathered on the main floor. From an upper balcony, the Empress addressed the gathered aristocrats, assailing the crowd with an Orlesian accent thick enough to cut with a dagger. She spoke in honeyed words about the country and its civil war. Darkness and light. Hope and peace. She'd hit all the usual notes a sovereign was expected to at a gathering such as this, and all the aristocrats would applaud and pretend to be moved while they got drunk on her expensive wine.

Honestly, it was enough to make the Warden roll his eyes.

The ability of Orlesians to cloak any event so heavily in pomp and circumstance to the point of meaninglessness never ceased to amaze. The gathering was supposed to be a peace conference to negotiate an end to the country's civil war, but it had the same festival air as any of the Empress' other galas.

With all the chevaliers off fighting, all you had left to fill the room was all of Orlais' stagnant, idle aristocracy. In Ferelden, to own land and bear a sigil was to be someone whose justice was trusted, and whose banner was followed into battle. Here, it meant nothing more than old names on yellowed parchment.

Suddenly, the room was filled with shouting and the distinctive pounding of soldier's boots across the immaculate stone floors, and Clyde's hand fell instinctively on the pommel of his sword.

Men-at-arms in pale green tabards and dark mail raced up the steps, short swords in hand. The badge of the Seekers of Truth flashed in the light as they closed on Celene, and for an instant Clyde felt his heart seize.

Could it have been a ploy all along? Was it the Inquisition that was seeking to kill the Empress?

The soldiers surrounded the woman beside the Empress, and as she retreated away from the bannister and out of sight, there came the unmistakable clamor of combat. From amidst the crowd of partygoers, masked figures stepped out of the sea of bodies, catching nearly a dozen Inquisition soldiers and loyalist nobles unaware as they cut them down with concealed daggers. As blood began to pool around the bodies that had fallen, the general alarm amongst the guests at the arrival of the soldiers exploded into panic as the crowd scattered, stepping over bodies and pushing past guards who tried frantically to confront the assassins.

In the commotion, the Warden spotted the shimmer of steel out of the corner of his eye, and quickly stepped to place himself in front of Morrigan. A masked figure appeared from amongst the crowd, dressed as one of the servants and holding a long dagger in one hand.

The assassin—perhaps mistaking the Warden for nothing more than a noble too foolish to run for his life—lunged forward, their knife aimed at his belly. With his longsword drawn only a few inches from its sheath, Clyde used the blade to expertly deflect the attack, countering with a powerful right cross that cracked the bard's ceramic mask and sent them sprawling to the ground an unconscious heap.

The warrior drew his sword fully and spun to see another assassin emerge from the sea of fleeing nobles, but she was suddenly engulfed by a stream of lightning. The cutthroat seized and convulsed as electricity coursed through her body, arcing from the point of the dagger in her hand and the metal ornamentals on the tips of her shoes. When the lightning ceased, the bard collapsed and didn't stir, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and the stink of charred meat.

A few thin tendrils of smoke wisped from Morrigan's fingertips as she looked to her Warden. "We must hurry."

With a nod, the pair raced for the massive set of double doors on the far side of the grand hall, rushing through the throngs of panicking guests and palace guards as they battled the remaining assassins. Clyde led the way through the crush of bodies, lowering his shoulder and cutting a path to the door like a charging bull.

When they got outside, they could hear the thunderous clamor of combat coming from across the palace grounds, and the gardens were a battlefield by the time they reached them.

The Inquisitor, wielding a staff and with a large tear splitting her fine, red dress down the length of one leg, summoned a tide of frost with a wave of her hand, encasing an ornate fountain in ice as the assassin standing atop it deftly evaded the spell.

To her left, a woman in a crimson blazer with short, black hair kept their foes at bay with a sword and shield. On the other side, a massive qunari swung his maul in a wide arc, catching a bard in the chest with a sound like dry, splintering timber and sending them sailing through the air, even as more of them closed to attack. Nearby, a second elf with short, messy blonde hair traded arrows with the army of bards pouring into the gardens—weaving expertly between marble statues and shrubs as projectiles zipped by.

With a determined snort, the Warden's hand tightened around the grip of his weapon. Without his shield or armor, he was at a serious disadvantage to be sure, but the nobleman could do more with just a sword than most men could do with any entire shield wall. Sparing a glance at Morrigan, he rushed forward.

Seizing the element of surprise, a downward chop from the Warden caught an unwary soldier in the side of the neck, and Clyde spun to the side and violently jerked the blade free, leaving the mercenary nearly decapitated. An awful, wet burble came from the man's throat as he clutched feebly at the mortal wound and collapsed.

The unfortunate soldier's companion turned and raised his sword just in time to stop the crushing overhead blow that would've split his skull, but was met with a swift kick to the chest that knocked him off his feet. Tumbling a short distance, the bard sprung backwards with his hands and rolled smooth beyond the reach of the incoming strike that would've ended his life. Pulling a small dagger from his belt, the assassin rushed forward and hurled it at the Warden, the knife whistling through the air like an arrow before Clyde batted it aside with a contemptuous swipe.

Foolishly hoping to exploit the opening the parry had created, the assassin lunged forward and pressed the attack. The Warden took a measured step into the advance, blocking a high thrust and stepping into his foe's wide stance. The warrior pivoted and skillfully hip-tossed the man in a quick motion, running him through from behind as the disoriented bard lie in the grass.

As Clyde turned in search of another target, a sharp pain shot through his left arm, sending him staggering back a step. The swordsman growled and instinctively raised his guard, spotting another foe charging him. Checking his arm, he found a small, black throwing dagger embedded in the meat of his shoulder, its hilt jutting out like a grotesque ornament.

Quickly swapping his sword into his other hand, the Warden removed the dagger from his shoulder with a grunt and cast it back at the charging bard. His aim was true and the assassin, wearing no armor beneath her servant's garb, gave a shocked sound as the weighted blade hit her squarely, sinking into her stomach just below her sternum.

She tumbled to the ground and didn't rise, pawing weakly at the blade's hilt until her gurgling pleas fell silent a moment later.

The dark blue sleeve of Clyde's jacket turning a sticky black as his wound bled freely, he surveyed the gardens and realized that the fight had ended in the time it had taken him to bring down his three opponents. Breathless and with fresh blood still dripping from his blade and leaving dark spots on the moonlit white flagstones, he met Morrigan's gaze a few paces away. The sorceress, with a handful of dead assassins laid out across the garden front of her, flashed her usual, self-assured smile at the breathless Warden.

A squad of Inquisition soldiers and royal guards trickled into the garden from the direction of the palace, carefully picking their way through the field of fallen enemies searching for survivors to be finished off or made prisoners.

The Inquisitor stood over the body of Celene's traitorous cousin, prodding the corpse cautiously with the end of her staff while her qunari companion looked on, his polearm tossed casually across one shoulder. The enormous oxman laughed and said something that the Warden Commander couldn't make out but earned a loud, disgusted groan from the swordswoman at the quanari's side. Nearby, the group's archer was inspecting a bow she'd lifted from one of the slain bards, looking into over thoughtfully for a moment before tossing it aside with a shrug and bending to relieve the dead ranger of his purse.

A vaguely familiar man in a broad-shouldered red coat appeared at the head of a small group of soldiers, addressing the Inquisitor in hushed, hurried tones. With a nod, the mage turned on her heel and started back for the palace with her party in tow. The bloodied Grey Warden caught a few odd looks as the group passed, but they nobody said anything, simply trooping along behind the Inquisitor as she set off with the air of someone with unfinished business to attend to.

With the immediate danger over, Clyde inspected his left arm carefully for a moment before giving a shrug, wiping his sword clean on the cuff of his ruined sleeve before returning it to the scabbard at his hip. Probing the ragged hole in his coat and the ugly puncture beneath, the man gave a grunt.

While it would need tending to, the blade—slowed by his jacket—hadn't gone deep enough to cause any serious damage, and the pain in his shoulder was already starting to ebb. He could expect it to be sore for a while afterwards, but he'd certainly survived worse.

Sadly, the same couldn't be said for the Warden's fine jacket. Between the large tear and the various splatters of blood that now stained it, the coat was a total loss. This was why his usual attire had fewer fringes and more chainmail, the Warden pondered mournfully as he looked himself over.

Tearing a long strip from the bottom of the comfortable white shirt he wore beneath his coat, he used it to bind the wound, calloused hands quickly wrapping the bandage neatly around his upper arm. As a soldier, it was a familiar task, and one that hard-earned experience had made nearly second nature.

Testing his wounded limb, Clyde frowned, realizing with alarm that not only the pain in his shoulder had vanished, _every_ sensation had. His arm, hanging limply at his side, had gone numb from the shoulder all the way down to his fingertips. Had he misjudged the wound? Had it been more serious than he'd initially thought?

Morrigan suddenly appeared at his right side, grabbing his hand and pulling him onward with some urgency. "Come."

She led the Warden through the gardens and away from the main part of the palace towards a different part of the estate. Emerging from the maze of tall hedgerows and wrought iron fences, he spotted the slightly smaller, but no less grand building that served as the guests' quarters, built in the same extravagant Orlesian style as the palace itself. Ahead of them, a lone guard kept post at a closed gate, no doubt to prevent adventurous or drunken guests from wandering the grounds.

Spotting Morrigan approaching, the sentry opened the gate, giving a polite bow as the pair passed and closing it behind them. If the masked soldier found the Warden's bloodied state the least bit remarkable, he certainly didn't let it show.

Climbing the short set of white limestone steps to the entrance left Clyde strangely breathless, his huffing enough to garner a slightly concerned look from his companion. Pushing open the door, Morrigan led him onward into a labyrinth of identical hallways with dark, varnished cladding up the walls that seemed to stretch on endlessly. At times, the long passages seemed to bend and spin of their own accord in his peripheries, the oddities vanishing whenever he turned his head to look. With a murmur, the Warden tugged at his collar, the building bizarrely stifling despite the cool night outside.

Eventually, the sorceress paused at a door that looked identical to the dozens of others they'd passed and produced a key from the folds of her dress. The oak door swung open to Morrigan's suite, and as she gently ushered him inside, the Warden caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror of a bureau pushed up against the wall and was shocked by the sight of himself. His face was pallid, giving his eyes the appearance of having sunken deeply back into his skull, and a sheen of sweat covered his cheeks and forehead.

He took a few uncertain steps, using one hand to steady himself against a table as he swayed on his feet. The noise of his sheathed sword clattering onto the tabletop as he unclipped it from his belt and deposited there sounded like thunder, and he found it impossible to ignore the way the room was beginning to spin. "I don't... I feel unwell."

Morrigan's cool, soft hands fell on his shoulders, gently guiding him into a nearby chair. "Wyvern poison. 'Tis not uncommon among court bards. I gave the antidote I carried to Celene at the beginning of the night as a precaution."

The Warden closed his eyes against the pressure building in his skull, but could still make out the scraping of a pestle being worked quickly against a mortar followed by the sound of a stopper being popped out of the mouth of a bottle. A moment later, he felt a ceramic cup being pressed into his hands. "Drink this."

He obeyed, choking down the thick, bitter concoction. Taking the empty cup from his grasp, Morrigan peeled his jacket off and tossed it aside, ignoring the pained it elicited. Pulling away the improvised bandage, she pressed her hand over the wound on his shoulder, and he felt the familiar pins-and-needles sensation of a healing spell. After a few moments, the pain in his arm disappeared entirely, and he could feel the rough cloth of a bandage being wound around his arm.

After a few minutes, the numbness in his arm began to fade, and he opened and closed his fingers a few times experimentally. The action made his hand throb unpleasantly, but at least feeling had begun to return.

"Come, rest." Morrigan instructed, easing the Warden to his feet. The broad-shouldered noble wavered slightly, but she quickly tucked herself into his side and wrapped a willowy arm around his back to support him. She began to lead him in the direction of the nearby bed, but he shifted his weight back on his heels and refused to be moved.

"I want to see my son."

A sour look flashed across the sorceress' face, but she relented after a moment.

"Fool." The witch chided, even as she acquiesced with a slow nod, guiding him quietly to the door of an adjacent room. Bringing one lithe finger to her lips, she turned the nob and silently pushed it open just a few inches.

Clyde felt his breathe hitch for an instant.

Inside, Kieran— _his son_ —was fast asleep in his bed, the low flames of the nearby hearth casting flickering orange light across his young, peaceful features. A mop of dark brown hair hung disorderly about his face, no doubt the aftermath of his adventures across the palace grounds.

The boy had his mother's eyes, of course, but as he'd developed, more and more of his father's likeness shown through. There were times the sight of him reminded him painfully of Oren, and the nobleman would've been lying if he didn't think about what kind of man his young nephew would've grown up to be.

Even so, after so many nights spent sleeping beneath the stars wondering about his family, to see Kieran safe and healthy gave the Warden peace.

On the floor beside him, a brawny, brown mass stirred, short, pointed ears swiveling in the direction of the open door.

Dog, still half asleep as he turned his head, visibly started at the sight of the man standing in the door, his entire body shaking to and fro as his stubby tail thumped against the rug. Clyde gestured for the mabari to stay, not wanting to risk the hound waking the boy in his excitement. He would see them both in the morning, and the Warden didn't want to frighten Kieran by let him see him in this state.

At length, the injured swordsman withdrew slightly from the door, wordlessly signaling the sorceress beneath his arm that he would now consent to being put to bed. He could feel his strength returning as he antidote took effect and he was more or less steady on his feet, but her proximity was still enjoyable in of itself.

The Warden sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and kicked off his boots before beginning the laborious process of removing his sword belt with only one good arm. With a theatrical huff, Morrigan stepped forward to assist him, undoing the buckle with quick, clinical efficiency before moving on to the buttons of his bloodstained white shirt.

However, by the time she pulled his white shirt up and over his head, Morrigan's touch had adopted a certain curiosity and longing. He could track each lingering touch as her fingertips traced the curve of his collarbone or drew small shapes on his bare skin. She leaned over him, a few strands of hair that had shaken loose from her tight bun dangling across her face, and a definite air of invitation in the way she draped her arms over his shoulders and joined her hands behind his neck.

Under most circumstances, Clyde would've happily looped a strong arm around her waist and tossed her into bed beside him, but the effects of the poison had sapped most of his energy and she was wearing a complicated dress the Warden was fairly certain he couldn't get her out of with only one hand working properly. Ultimately, he could only respond to the witch's touch with a gentle kiss on the back of her hand and a warm but tired smile.

"Rest." Morrigan instructed in a soft, understanding tone as she bent to place a slow kiss on his lips. Her amber eyes seemed to glow in the low light when she spared him a glance while starting for the door. "I shall return in a while."

* * *

…

When the sorceress did finally return to her quarters two hours later, she locked the door behind her but didn't immediately move, simply lingering there with an air of weariness about her as the enormity of the evening finally settled on her.

While not one to get caught up in the moment, Morrigan nevertheless sometimes found herself in the midst of events that shaped the very course of the world, and it was worthwhile to take pause on occasion.

The witch had returned to the palace to find that the Inquisitor had put to bed Orlais' civil war in her absence, a rather fine conclusion to the evening if you asked her. With wry amusement, Morrigan pondered what story the nobility would exaggerate beyond recognition first—the tale of the duchess' betrayal, or of the Inquisitor's battle in the gardens. Mark her words, in a month's time the bards would be telling stories of how the lithe Dalish mage had beheaded a high dragon in the middle of the grand hall.

Regardless, it was a matter for another time.

Her reassignment to Skyhold had been the more interesting development. It wasn't entirely unwelcome, as it would happen, but it would spell an end to her time in Orlais, at least for some time. Admittedly, she had no special affection for the country—nor any, for that matter—but as much as she detested the aristocrats that flocked to the court, her position as the Empress' arcane advisor had granted her access to a number of useful resources otherwise beyond her reach. So, she'd do as had been instructed of her.

And given that the Empress herself wasn't safe in her own palace, perhaps a fortress in the Frostbacks was a safer place for Kieran besides. As an accomplished mage and one of the few in the world who could claim to have helped put an end to a Blight, there was admittedly very little that gave Morrigan cause to worry, but she could confess she deeply feared being unable to protect her son.

Her gaze fell on the dozing form of her Warden, and she gave an incredulous snort. At some point, he had clambered out of bed to retrieve his sword belt from the table near the door, and the weapon now hung from one of the ornate bedposts, close at hand should he need it. Dog had also crept out of Kieran's room in her absence, and was now a large, snoring mass in the corner where he was tucked out of the way but could still raise his head to see his sleeping master. Her return had prompted the canine to sleepily open one eye, but the mabari had dozed back off just as quickly.

Dog had been unhappy to be left behind when her love had departed on his journey, but Morrigan couldn't help but think it a blessing. While she'd had her own misgivings about the beast when she'd started traveling with the party during the Blight, she'd come to appreciate him, and he'd proven as loyal and steadfast a companion to Kieran as he had been to the boy's father.

Undoing the clasp of her necklace, she gently placed it in the small, plain jewelry box atop her bureau and closed it before beginning to disrobe.

While the sorceress could admit that she wasn't entirely above the appeal of a fine necklace or other such bauble, she had found the fashion and atmosphere of the Orlesian royal court to be unbearable.

Complex, extravagant dresses so heavy and impractical that most noblewomen could do little more than shuffle carefully from place to place lest they tip over, with ornate masks that left them practically blind. It was no wonder the country had such an issue with assassins—the rich could neither see them coming nor run away.

At one particularly awful soiree near the start of her time in Orlais, an aging duchess snapped her neatly gloved fingers in the midst of a conversation with the Empress, and Morrigan had watched a manservant appear at her side to scratch the woman's nose, because she couldn't reach her face without disturbing the enormous ruffle collar she wore just beneath her chin. Neither the Empress nor the duchess had made the least acknowledgment of it and carried on their conversation, while the mag could only gawk. Even after decades of delving into the unnatural and the occult, the witch could still comfortably say that it was one of the strangest things she'd ever seen on this side of the Veil.

And while she would quickly grow indifferent to such ridiculous sights, she as an advisor to Her Majesty, she was obligated to adapt at least some of the nation's customs.

Morrigan gave a low, pleased moan as she massaged the fair skin of her back. As the court mage, she had the unspoken duty of being prepared to protect the Empress if necessary, and paired with her own rather unpopular status as a foreign apostate in the Orelsian court, she'd taken precautions for the possibility of having to confront a hostile bard.

The folds of her long dress concealed pockets that held antidotes and herbs, and the fine corset around her midsection doubled as a sort of cuirass and would stop the point of a dagger. A slim, sharp dirk was tucked invisibly inside of a sheathe sewn at her waist such she could draw it in a single motion. While nothing more than a weapon of last resort in the unlikely event that her magic should fail her, she could still remember the series of quick, sharp thrusts her Warden had taught her when he'd given it to her.

Draping the dress across a chair where she could deal with it in the morning, she crossed the room with catlike tread and slid silently over the covers. With a contented sigh, the sorceress let the stress of the evening's events ebb away as she settled into her pillow.

Despite her efforts to avoid disturbing her love, she felt the mattress shift and a broad, strong arm snaked around her midsection.

"I've been assigned to the Inquisition." She whispered. "I'll leave for Skyhold when they depart in a few days' time."

Clyde gave a low, sleepy grumble of acknowledgment without opening his eyes, pulling her closer, until she could feel the pleasant warmth of his body at her back. After so many months apart, sharing a bed with him again felt strange, even unfamiliar, and the feeling pained her. Would it feel odd like this, for as long as she knew he would set off on the road once again? Would there come a time when she forgot how his company felt entirely?

"How long will you stay?" Morrigan asked quietly. A note of something crept into her voice. Apprehension? Pain? Even the sorceress didn't know for certain.

"Worry in the morning." He murmured, pressing a kiss on the back of her neck.

And somehow, that was enough. The warmth of his body and the heady scent of him chased away the worry for a time, and the witch was content to simply happy at his presence. With the exhaustion of the day weighing down on her and the reassurance of her love's arm around her, Morrigan drifted off to sleep with the barest hint of a smile on her dark lips.


End file.
